Happy Holidays
by Jack Wong
Summary: The Calendar Man is released from Arkham, and Batman must stop him before he strikes on Christmas. Re-up, if you like it comment. Peace


"Master Bruce?" Alfred finds me in the batcave, studying the criminal database. He isn't pleased, and as he comes down the stairs he makes this clear. "Master Bruce if we don't make your purchases soon there won't be anything left on the shelves."

"He's out there, Alfred."

He rolls his eyes. "Someone's always going to be out there," he says. "Who are we speaking of this time, if I may ask?"

"Day."

He sighs. "Can't we think of the brighter parts of the holidays?"

"I can't believe Arkham released him…"

"Things are crazy over there, sir."

"…and right before Christmas." I smile. "Ha ha, Alfred."

"Trying to lighten the mood, sir." He picks up a plate I had brought down, and starts walking back towards the elevator. "I take it I'll be shopping alone."

"People will die if I don't catch him, Alfred."

"Very well," he says as he leaves. "But whatever shall I get for Master Dick?" He closes the door before I can answer.

Yesterday this wouldn't have been a problem. Yesterday Julian Day, the Calendar Man, was still on the radar of his parole officer. Today, he has disappeared.

They all disappear. They all take the first breath of fresh air they get and go back to their business, and make me and everyone else who worked to put them away look like fools.

Julian Day kills people. But he makes himself predictable – it's his gimmick: only on holidays. Christmas is three days away. I have to find him, and fast.

It's been a while since he was out, and where he has gone, I can't be sure. He could have hooked up with someone else's network in the Arkham School for Criminals, and I have no way of knowing which network that would be. What is my first step?

I ponder this as the natural light the batcave gets fades; it is time to go to work. You're mine, Julian I only hope I can catch you before Christmas. That's the present I want more than any other; a present for me, and for the world.

'

Julian and I go back; way, way back. At first his crimes were petty, and his odd modus operandi made him the butt of jokes in the criminal underworld. I had no reason to take him seriously. But all that changed on an Easter, years and years ago.

The city had organized an egg hunt, and parents and their kids came to look for pastel-colored eggs on the lawn at city hall. But what was really going on was a perverse game of luck. Someone had slipped an egg into the mix, one that was different than the others. Excellent forensic work later proved that someone to be Julian Day.

A little girl found an egg that was heavier than the others; it was a shrapnel bomb, and killed her and her parents in the parking lot when they tried to open it. Also wounded were three children, five adults and the soul of Gotham; all recovered eventually, but no egg hunt was ever held by city hall again. And Easter was never the same.

Since that day I have taken Julian Day very, very seriously.

Intensive searching for him turned up nothing, and when I found him it was by chance – he was working a gun in one of the Joker's hideouts when I paid it a visit. According to Julian the clown had found the crime 'amusing,' and took Day under his wing. This association did wonders for his insanity defense, and he ended up at Arkham, and periodically on the streets.

Each time he was released he would find a holiday and start plotting; later we would find out too late which one it was. He struck on a Valentine's Day, a Friday the 13th – on and on. And while he wasn't as frequent in his crimes as other figures, each holiday that occurred while he was at large had us holding our breath. Julian Day, master of suspense.

The Calendar Man.

'

"I need to buy some fertilizer," he says to the person at the help desk.

"Aisle 14."

Julian makes his way through the store, his fifth in the past two days; he only buys two bags at a time, to avoid suspicion. He finds the section and takes his haul up to the counter in a shopping cart, pays in cash, smiles at the cashier, and walks the goods out to the car.

It's a white four-door he bought from a friend's chop shop; the trunk is spacious, and fits the bags. On to the next store.

But as he pulls out of the parking lot he hears the beep of short sirens in back of him, and looks in the mirror – uniforms, pulling him over. He takes a second to think. Hmm.

Julian parks the car and lets the one cop come over to question him. The officer knocks on his window, and he rolls it down.

"License and registration please." Julian leans over and fishes in the glove compartment for the documents. "You know your car's missing license plates."

"I do," Day said, and hands the registration and a fake ID to the cop, who looks them over.

"Mr. Gretlin," he says, and puts the face up to compare. "This isn't you."

"You're right," Julian says, and the cop looks perplexed.

'

It was a sad way to get lucky, a horrible way. But the man police had routinely pulled over in West Gotham looked, in the security footage, like Day; you could see his face as he turned around to shoot the second cop, who had jumped out of the cruiser after the first had misplaced his brains all over the road. After the second went down, the driver sped away.

He would ditch the car. He would go deeper into hiding. But at least I know what he's going to do – he had just bought some nitrogen-heavy fertilizer. He is making a bomb.

Now it was only a question of guarding everything he might want to blow up, keeping the situation under control for as long as it takes us to pinpoint the target. Gordon wants to talk – I can see it in the clouds. I make my way towards the police building, fast.

He's there talking with someone when I land on the roof, but dismisses them as I walk over. "Go inside," he says, and turns to me as she walks away. "Batman," he says, "we've got a problem."

"You mean Julian Day."

"That's right," he says. "The so-called Calendar Man."

I can tell from's Jim's look that there is a complication. "Has something changed in the case?"

"This isn't the first time Day's killed cops," he says, "and the force is getting pretty hot about this. The guys we lost, well, they're important guys. Good guys."

I hope he's not saying what I think he is. "What are you getting at?"

"They want this one." I shake my head before I can think twice. "I agree," Gordon says. "I know better than anyone that you get results we can't. But the boys, they don't think this way. And they want Day to themselves."

"They asked you to tell me that, didn't they." Gordon nods, and I sigh. "Your men don't know what they're talking about."

"Now-"

"A bunch of corrupt cops can't stop Julian."

Gordon takes offense. "That's a hell of a thing to say!"

"I'm sorry," I say, and look up. "Obviously you have good men." But what's unsaid sits there, and both of us hear it. For the majority, it's true.

"Look, we may not have much to work with, but we try."

"I'm getting in the way of my point," I say. "I can't put the safety of Gotham's citizens in the hands of the force. Not by itself."

"Okay," Gordon says, "but they're trusting me to reign you in. Do your thing, but if you can make it look like you had nothing to do with it, that'd be better for me."

"I'll see what I can do, Jim," I say, and walk to the edge of the building.

"Batman," he says, and I turn around. "Don't talk bad about my boys again. They're my boys."

I keep eye contact for a few seconds, then jump off, into the dark city, and swing away.

'

Christmas comes without a break in the case, and I am prepared for the worst. I spent the last two days knocking on every door and turning over every rock I could, and ended up finding nothing. Day's playing this one pretty close to the chest.

And now, with snow gently falling and jack frost nipping at all our noses, it's the most wonderful time of the year again. But where?

Where is the bomb?

Is it ticking in a toy store, beyond the capability of policemen to find? It's not under the tree downtown, we know that. It's not anywhere that makes sense. It's somewhere only a psychopath would put it. Give us a clue, Julian. Give us a chance.

In civilian clothes I walk through Gotham, through its most populated, highest risk areas. I'm looking for anything out of the ordinary, and have my face covered by a scarf and hat; my body is covered in high quality anti-blast gear. I can't break out the suit right now and watch the situation from above. I have to settle for the ground level view.

Which is good. Because when I see Fu Long on a street corner, dressed up like Santa Claus, waving a bell with a huge sack at his side, I figure out what's going on.

Fu Long is a wanted man. A Joker man. There's no way he would be out on the street unless there was something up. I walk by and as soon as he looks the other direction, take the bag and run.

It's hidden under a jacket and a pack of cigarettes, and doesn't look like anything I've ever seen, but it's a bomb alright – a bomb capable of killing, maiming; a bomb capable of scarring, once again, Gotham's soul. I pull out my phone, and punch in the right number.

"Gordon here. Who is this?"

"It's me," I say in my night voice. "Have your men grab every Santa they see on the sidewalks."

He laughs, but not because it's implausible. "You wanna tell me why?" he asks.

"Because I just found one carrying a nitrogen bomb."

'

Gordon's boys get to be heroes. They bust forty bomb-holding Santas in a massive sweep of the downtown area; no bombs go off. Disaster averted. A feel-good story and a happy ending, for once.

But I'm not happy.

"What did you tell your men?" I ask Gordon on the roof. He turns.

"That it was an anonymous tip. You really saved the day here."

I say nothing. That's what I do.

"Your men got all of them," I say.

He looks out over the city. "Or scared the rest of them off." Gordon's not an optimist either, and it shows in the lines on his face as he stares across the glass canyon. "Scared off Day," he says.

I know how he feels. "There's always New Year's," I say.

He laughs and looks to me. "Was that a joke? I've never heard you tell a joke before."

I smile. "Merry Christmas Jim." And I jump off the roof.

"Merry Christmas," I hear as I swing away.

We stopped you this time, Julian. Good, but not satisfying – I need you back behind bars. Until then no holiday will be a holiday for me; until then they will be the worst days of the year. I wasn't joking, talking to Jim. There will be New Year's, just like there will be a Saint Patrick's Day, just like there will be another Christmas. I know why you call yourself the Calendar Man. Because the calendar is your weapon, your favorite torture device. Your method of twisting the knife.

Julian Day.

I hope you get your coal.


End file.
